


snowmelt

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s impossible to think on anything else. Val’s not used to such a thing; her mind and her body have only ever truly belonged to her. She should be cross and contemptuous of this boy who thinks he can make things otherwise, but she can’t be, she can only open her thighs to his hot tongue and let herself want. She thaws under his touch; she is snowmelt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	snowmelt

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to **[beg, borrow, steal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/395592)**

He kneels more readily than any man she’s ever known.

He’s been coming to her for weeks. He makes no move to fuck her, he requests no like gesture from her, his teasing question that first time about queens taking the knee notwithstanding. He is just abjectly eager to get his mouth on her cunt, sucking and licking like he’ll die if he doesn’t, any time, any place, any way. Normally Val would grow impatient with such things, she would tire of the attentions and want to be fucked, but not with Jon. With Jon she draws it out, looks for every way she can find to encourage him, not that he truly requires encouragement. She raises her skirts to reveal herself to him as soon as he walks through the door of her tower chambers. Stands poised over him with her feet apart while he tilts his chin up to get at her. Plants a foot on the arm of his chair and waits, hands on her hips, fingers tapping for the bare seconds it takes him to groan and fall forward, pushing his tongue inside her like to fuck her with it. She _wants_ him to fuck her with it, wants to take hold of his ears and pull him in, wants to sit on his face and let him bury it in her cunt while he makes those perfect, pleading sounds that drive her to distraction. It’s impossible to think on anything else. Val’s not used to such a thing; her mind and her body have only ever truly belonged to her. She should be cross and contemptuous of this boy who thinks he can make things otherwise, but she can’t be, she can only open her thighs to his hot tongue and let herself want. She thaws under his touch; she is snowmelt.

“Did you do this with Ygritte?” she asks. He’s sprawled on her bed, hands gripping her arse as she rides his face, working against his moving lips and tongue with an abandon that’s uncommon for her. If only it didn’t feel so agonizingly good, if only he didn’t make such eager, pleased sounds every time she squirms herself down onto his mouth, wanting him closer, deeper. She imagines him with Ygritte riding his face like this, thinks on how it would look from the outside, and it sends a jolt of fire through her, making her pulse and flutter against his tongue.

He spares only a moment to answer, an out-of-breath smile on his pink, wet lips. “Not _quite_ like this,” he says. Hard to imagine his face could look so sweet in the splay of her thighs, beneath her curls and her cunt, wet with the taste of her. She finds herself glad that for him this one thing is still new, something she can show him. Val has never been one to romanticize fucking – few freefolk do – but something about Jon makes her envy Ygritte her place as the first woman he’d touched, the first woman he’d tasted and fucked and taken. The first woman who’d done the same to him.

“Poor Ygritte, then,” Val says as he teases her with light touches, with the barest tip of his tongue, before giving her the flat of it, firm and warm and wet, holding it still to make her squirm against his face. She wriggles, writhes, but still he won’t move – she can feel his grin against her cunt – so she takes matters into her own hands, winds her fingers into his hair and undulates her hips like he’s her favorite horse, his head rocking back into the ticking of the mattress with her movements. His moan vibrates up through her cunt, urgent, encouraging, appreciative. He’s always so appreciative, this boy, so ardent and eager. He’s quite unlike any freefolk man she’s ever known. These kneelers call her a princess, but only Jon makes her feel like there might be some truth to the name.

Surely her grip in his hair must hurt. She’s not gentle as she steers him, as she holds his face to rub herself against it, the way she used to do with her own fingers before he began to visit her, when she was alone and lonely and homesick. She hasn’t needed to touch herself in weeks. Jon gives more than enough touching to exhaust her, sometimes still licking at her when she’s raw and sensitive and only wants to squirm away, so that she has to push him from her, shoo him off like a pestering gadfly. She never lasts long, though. Even when she thinks she can’t bear his tongue on her cunt for a week at least, she still finds herself widening her feet when she stands before him an hour later, waiting for him to sink to his knees with that appreciative moan, to lick from knee to hip and everywhere in between before opening his mouth over her and sucking hot and sweet.

He likes it best when she grabs at him, she’s found, when she pushes and demands and twines him entirely about her little finger. Moreover, he likes it when even after all that, he can make her break and tremble and say his name. She says it now as he delves his tongue deep, then scrapes his teeth over her lightly, so lightly, circles his tongue and sucks. She says his name and he hums into her, his hands sliding around to the joints of her hips, squeezing and sinking into the yield of her flesh, pulling her down to let him get up inside her where he belongs, where they both want him to be.

“I dream of you,” he breathes against the inside of her thigh, kissing the pale skin there. “I dream of your cunt and your wrists and the way you tuck your hair behind your ear.” It’s the most curious thing anyone has ever said to her, and it pleases her, makes her shiver out a sigh that turns into a whining moan when he noses at her and sucks just the right way to have her shivering and jerking with release. She’d never known that there were different ways of stealing a woman, but it’s only fair he show her something new as well.

She doesn’t tell him she dreams of him too. There are some things no man should know of a woman, no matter where his tongue has been.


End file.
